Lest Precious Love Slip Away
by K242
Summary: Atop her lonely throne, the ruling seat of a thousand years of Adrestian emperors, Edelgard awaits the end. The end of a millennium-long dynasty, snuffed out under her reign, and the end of her struggle. The end of her life.


Atop her lonely throne, the ruling seat of a thousand years of Adrestian emperors, Edelgard awaits the end. The end of a millennium-long dynasty, snuffed out under her reign, and the end of her struggle. The end of her life. Soon she will know the icy grip of death, the cold nothingness of the empty beyond, but Edelgard does not regret her choice. Not for a single second. She fought for equality, she fought for freedom. She fought to help humanity cast off the shackles of the crests and the church. The people chose to keep their chains, but Edelgard cannot begrudge them their choice. The church has always given the people what they desire: peace and stability, even if this tranquil world is built upon an ancient deception.

Not that Edelgard truly believes what lies about the church that her uncle constantly fed her. Edelgard is not naïve; she is perfectly capable of recognizing Arundel for the treacherous snake that he is. It was he, after all, who instigated the Insurrection of the Seven, who kidnapped Edelgard and her siblings and subjected them to the heinous blood and crest experiments. Yes, there may have been a grain of truth among the sea of Arundel's lies, but in the end this war was never about the grudges of an age long past. Not for Edelgard.

Edelgard fought to tear down the very pillars of Fodlan's society: the crests that propagate systematic oppression and inequality. A system that slowly flickers and sputters, like a dying ember in a frigid blizzard, as the blood of heroes grows weaker and weaker with each passing generation. Edelgard knows what awaits Fodlan in such a future, for she herself suffered at the hand of the crests. If she could abolish and destroy the crests, then Edelgard could help root out the bloated corruption that has crept into Fodlan's culture and help establish a new world. A world where one's blood does not define his or her worth, a world where nobles would not breed for crests like they would a prize race horse, a world where there would be no need for people to sink to the darkest depths of human depravity just to taste the power and prestige of a crest. A world worth fighting for. A world worth dying for.

And die Edelgard will, for her ideals and dreams which have been shattered and trampled upon by those who would denounce her as a warmonger, a heretic, a murderer. The war is lost. Edelgard has no delusions of a miraculous victory, not with her back to the proverbial wall. Winning her would only delay the inevitable. But she cannot openly admit that to her people. They have sacrificed so much for her; she cannot betray their hope and trust now.

In the back of her mind, Edelgard always had a feeling that her dream would end this way: outnumbered and alone, to be forever branded a monster. Edelgard had already long made peace with such an outcome; her ambition and conviction are not so shallow as to let a potential label dissuade her. And she made peace with her own mortality the day she was implanted with the Crest of Flames, for it is that very crest that delivered her death sentence. But she will not lay down and die. She will fight with everything she has. To give up now would not only betray herself but would also disgrace the memories of those who have already laid down their lives in her name.

In another life, perhaps, none would have to die for such reform. A world where her time on this earth is not limited by an artificial crest, slowly sapping the very life out of her. A chance to talk this all out peacefully. Edelgard would have liked that.

But that is a mere daydream, the last idle musing of a woman awaiting her executioner. To make peace and negotiate for change would be the undertaking of a lifetime—a lifetime Edelgard does not have. If she were to die and leave her work unfinished, she would leave Adrestia, and thus the future of the continent, in the hands of her uncle—in the hands of Those Who Slither in the Dark. So Edelgard's only chance was to reach out and try to seize her dream by force, even though she had to compromise her moral compass. The few for the many. But when to the few become too many? Edelgard doesn't know. What she does know is that the line was crossed long ago.

The clicking of a single pair of footsteps on the marble of the throne room echoes throughout the grand hall, the towering arches and ornate tapestries bearing witness to the conclusion of Adrestia's storied history. Edelgard knows this was coming, knows who is coming, and she would not have it end any other way. But still, she feels a pang of guilt and unfathomable sadness as she slowly descends the throne's staircase to meet her executioner.

Edelgard does not regret her path. But she does regret what is has cost. Those peaceful days at the monastery, the one time in her life where she could shed her mask and finally be herself—finally be free. Sharing smiles and laughs with her friends and classmates, who had become the surrogate family that she lost long ago. Edelgard can feel a sob rise in her throat with every footfall, each punctuated by a name.

Ferdinand. In time he outgrew his petty, one-sided rivalry, but he never lost the drive to be better tomorrow than he was yesterday. As prime minister, he was always there to be Edelgard's counterbalance, to make sure that every aspect of every issue was properly explored and analyzed. He fought to hold the Great Bridge of Myrddin, and in his gallant defense he finally managed to defeat Edelgard in something: between the two of them, he was the first to pass on.

Bernadetta. Sweet, meek Bernie had come so far from the terrified girl she used to be. She never truly lost her fear, but she learned to face it. Even though she was uncertain of Edelgard's path, Bernadetta still followed her emperor—her friend—with unwavering loyalty. Even as Edelgard's own flames trapped her on the battlefield at Gronder, Bernadetta did not give up. She looked every bit the heroic archer of legend, struggling to protect her friends and loved ones. And on that bloodstained field, the hero fell to a volley from the legendary Failnaught, so far from the comfort and safety of the room from which she was dragged out.

Linhardt. His magical talent, though immensely powerful, was never meant for war. His passions and purpose lay in discovery and enlightenment, not in bloodshed and violence. He too, like Bernadetta, was all but forced into war by Edelgard. She would not have blamed him if he abandoned the Empire, but Linhardt could not stomach to abandon his friends. That was not him. And all his devotion to his friends earned him in the end was a fruitless death and a smoking crater for a grave.

Caspar. Even with such limited prospects as the second son of House Bergliez, he never stopped trying his hardest. Anything he put his mind to, he would give his all—even this war, though he had his qualms about Edelgard's more unsavory allies. Even so, he put his heart and soul into the war effort, never losing faith in Edelgard's vision of a better world, knowing what awaited him if they lost. But even if he always knew losing meant, that didn't mean he was ready.

Hubert. He had been by Edelgard's side from the very beginning. Hubert always said that a leader must be pure, and he did everything in his power so that Edelgard would never have to dirty her hands with the blood of his gruesome work. But what Hubert forgot is that Edelgard is already covered in the blood of the fallen. So much that it has stained her soul. But still he fought valiantly, did what no one else could or would, so that Edelgard's world might come to pass. And as Hubert would claim, his life belonged to Lady Edelgard, and so he laid down his life in her name.

Petra. The princess of a faraway land, fighting in a war in which she had no stake. She was always a hostage, no matter how much one could try to dress it up, but she still served Edelgard as loyally (if not more so than) any native Adrestian. She would never see her homeland again, never again see her people and her family. Hunted down like an animal, like the prey she would stalk back at the academy and in Brigid in those carefree days.

Dorothea. She was never a killer, or even a fighter. Her distaste for this conflict was always clear, yet she never said anything to Edelgard. Was it out of loyalty? Fear? Edelgard wishes Dorothea had been brave enough to raise her doubts to a friend-or were the ever friends to begin with? Edelgard would ask, but she can't. Not anymore. Dorothea's song has ended, cruelly cut short by uncaring steel. Maybe now, Dorothea has found the peace she longed for so much. But Edelgard would never find forgiveness from Dorothea.

And, of course, Byleth. At the very least, the professor still lives. But that does not mean the professor has been unharmed by this war. Even before the war, back at Garreg Mach, Edelgard hurt Byleth. Because Edelgard betrayed her morals and accepted Arundel's aid, the professor lost her father. Edelgard will never forget the sorrow and anguish with which Byleth cried as she cradled her dying father in her arms. Edelgard's own heart was wrenched with agony, for it was she who inflicted this pain upon someone whom she cares do deeply about. When they met five years later, Edelgard still held out hope that the professor would choose her, would stand by her side again. Nothing more than a fool's hope. And Edelgard's words from that night now ring in her ears once more: "The next time we meet. . .one of us shall breathe their last."

And now, the debt collector has come for her due.

Byleth slowly approaches the throne, her gaze firmly fixed upon her target. The professor's face is not the bland, emotionless face of the Ashen Demon of old, of the feared mercenary who would cut her way through armies without a single word or reaction. Instead, Byleth's face is an ugly parody of itself, warped by her anger and hatred for Edelgard. It pains Edelgard to see those eyes, once so full of understanding and kindness for her, instead filled with disgust and loathing. But she deserves this.

"My teacher. . ." Edelgard says, a hand wistfully tracing along the ornate hilt of her saber as she steps closer and closer to her fate. "I—"

"There's nothing more to be said between us," Byleth hatefully spits, cutting Edelgard off. She raises the Sword of the Creator and assumes a fighting stance. "Your life is mine."

Edelgard sighs. She had hoped to exchange words with the professor one last time, but she knows that her wishes are never meant to be. She tightens her grip on Aymr, feels the weapon pulse with the power of her crest, and Edelgard steels herself for her final battle.

Without further pause, the professor barrels toward Edelgard with all the subtlety of a raging bull, a far cry from her patient and analytical fighting style. Taken aback, Edelgard uses her shield to barely weather Byleth's charge, stumbling back slightly from the force of the assault. The second she finds an opening, Edelgard retaliates with a swipe of her axe, forcing Byleth to nimbly hop away from Aymr's beastly jaws.

With the professor on the back foot for hardly a second, Edelgard surges forth and takes the offensive, rushing Byleth with surprising speed. Aymr is an unwieldy, hulking weapon, but Edelgard masterfully twirls the legendary weapon as if it were a toy, delivering a barrage of strikes. Byleth easily dodges the lumbering axe, skillfully parrying whatever attacks she cannot avoid. Edelgard attempts to smash Aymr directly down on top of the professor, hoping to break her guard, but Byleth catches the axe on the edge of her sword and redirects its momentum directly into the floor, Aymr's head biting deep into the marble. For a brief moment, Edelgard tries to wrest her weapon free of the stone's grip, and without hesitation Byleth seizes the opportunity.

With a deft flick of her wrist, she transforms her weapon from sword to whip, and Byleth sends the elongated blade to tangle around Aymr's haft just as Edelgard pulls the weapon free. It would be simple for Edelgard to leverage her superior strength to rip the Sword of the Creator from Byleth's hands, but she hesitates. After she disarms Byleth, then what? During that key moment of indecision, Byleth turns her weapon and painfully twists Edelgard's arm, causing the emperor to lose her grip on her weapon. Aymr skitters along the floor, far away from the two combatants, and Byleth returns her weapon to its sword form with another snap of her wrist.

Disarmed of her relic weapon, Edelgard is far from defeated. Instinctively, her hand flies to her hip and unsheathes her saber. The lighter, more agile weapon is incompatible with her unwieldy yet protective shield, so Edelgard lets the massive slab of steel crash to the floor. Sword in hand, Edelgard raises her blade in a defensive guard and waits. Byleth, however, has no such patience. She takes her sword in a two-handed death grip and levels the tip with Edelgard's heart and dashes forth, blade leveled to deliver a decisive, lethal thrust.

In the short eternity of Byleth closing the gap between them, Edelgard lets her sword slip from her grasp and stands tall, arms wide in a beckoning gesture. Unprepared, Byleth's sword still strike true, but Edelgard's unexpected lack of resistance causes the two of them to clumsily tumble to the floor, gravity and Byleth's own weight driving the Sword the Creator deeper home. Before she collapses on top of Edelgard, Byleth catches herself on her hands and knees above her dying student.

Blue eyes meet lavender and silence expectantly hangs in the air. Slowly, weakly, Edelgard raises her bloodied hands and gently cups Byleth's face.

"My life. . .was always yours, my teacher."

Byleth only dumbly stares down at the fallen emperor, lost for words. This was the moment she had been waiting for—living for—ever since she woke up. Ever since her father died. Revenge and justice have been meted out. Byleth should feel relieved, happy even. She did it. She has ended the war and defeated the murderous tyrant. But now, in her moment of triumph, Byleth only feels a familiar boundless emptiness.

It's only when Edelgard's thumb brushes wetness of her face does Byleth realize she's crying.

"How odd. . .why are you crying?" Edelgard quietly asks with a smile. "This is what you wanted. . .isn't it?"

Byleth thought she knew what she wanted. Justice, vengeance, and an end to this pointless war. But now, she doesn't know. Her eyes no longer see the emperor who has brought Fodlan unimaginable death and suffering, but instead they see the young woman from the monastery who is finally able to be herself for the first time. They see the young girl, alone and afraid, shivering in a pitch-black dungeon as countless scars mar her frail body.

They see Edelgard.

Edelgard lets out a wet cough, accidentally spraying Byleth with a sanguine mist. She briefly frowns at her mistake, but it is of little consequence now. With a choking, wheezing breath, Edelgard musters the strength to speak again.

"Byleth. . ." she whispers, saying her teacher's name for the first time, her eyes growing unfocused and her breathing shallowing out. "What a beautiful name. . .Byleth."

Edelgard's hands fall from Byleth's face, her eyes half-lidded and glazed over as the darkness claims her, but her content yet regretful smile doesn't fade.

"I wanted. . .to walk with you. . . ."

Long after the battle has ended, Byleth remains in the throne room, Edelgard's limp body in her arms. Byleth can no longer tell where Edelgard's crimson armor end and the ever-growing pool of her lifeblood begins, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care that her own clothes and skin grow damp and sticky with blood—in some twisted way, Byleth tries to imprint this moment into her memory, knowing this will be the last time she will ever be with Edelgard. And that thought causes something to well-up in her throat, something foreign yet so familiar, that seizes her heart in its crippling grasp.

Byleth knows these emotions from before. The same emotions she felt as she held her father's body in her arms.

Sorrow.

Regret.

Only now can Byleth answer Edelgard's question. But what's done is done. Edelgard is gone. Saying what Byleth wants now is pointless, so she bites her tongue, silencing herself. Those words will go with her to the grave, forever unspoken.

Byleth leans over and gently closes Edelgard's half-open, glassy eyes and presses a short, chaste kiss to Edelgard's forehead.

". . .Goodbye, El."


End file.
